


You Know What Flows Here Like Wine

by mrs_d



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Everyone Is Poly Because Vampires, F/F, Femslash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-04
Updated: 2016-12-04
Packaged: 2018-09-06 14:02:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8755375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mrs_d/pseuds/mrs_d
Summary: It’s the blonde human, the one who always looks much too vanilla for a bar like this, with its harsh guitars, sticky floors, and vampires. She’s in red tonight, an angular dress that’s softened by the swell of her breasts, the curve of her hips, and the waves of hair that twist down around her collarbone. For a second, Natasha wants to brush it back, lose her fingers in it, and kiss the pale skin it covers, taste the traces of sun that no doubt still linger in her pores.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [permashift](https://archiveofourown.org/users/permashift) for beta!

“She’s back,” Maria says, with a jerk of her chin.

The spinning laser lights are glinting off her new lip ring; Natasha has to squint to see past it, but she does, and she sees who Maria’s talking about. It’s the blonde human, the one who always looks much too vanilla for a bar like this, with its harsh guitars, sticky floors, and vampires.

For a second, Natasha’s hopeful, like she always is when she sees this woman, especially when she’s in red like she is tonight, an angular dress that’s softened by the swell of her breasts, the curve of her hips, and the waves of hair that twist down around her collarbone. For a second, Natasha wants to brush it back, lose her fingers in it, and kiss the pale skin it covers, taste the traces of sun that no doubt still linger in her pores.

But then the blonde turns, and Natasha remembers— this human isn’t hers, can’t be hers, because the skinny punk is here too, with his white-blonde mohawk and dark, glittering eyeliner. Natasha hates him. Hates his navy blue leather jacket, hates the way he holds his pet’s hand, hates his sharp perfect teeth that glow faintly in the black lights over the bar.

“Damn,” Maria whispers, like she always does when the skinny punk appears.

The blonde woman waits patiently for the skinny punk to bring her a drink. Natasha decides to breathe— in, out. It’s something she has to think to do in mixed company. The other vamps wouldn’t notice, but there’s no call to unnerve their pets.

“Wanna hit the place down the block?” Maria asks.

She sips her whiskey, wincing around the new piercing. It will heal and fall out before dawn; Natasha’s never sure why Maria bothers getting it done, but she does, every few weeks, _for a change_ , she says. Or maybe it is every few months that she does it. Natasha’s not very good at keeping track of time anymore.

For instance, she can’t remember, exactly, when she last saw the punk and his pet. It can’t have been that long ago; the blonde woman seems unaged. But their appearance in places that Natasha frequents seems to have increased in the last... month? Year? Natasha isn’t sure.

She is sure, however, that the skinny punk isn’t worthy of a pet like this. He probably doesn’t even see her, doesn’t know what he’s found in her. He probably uses her body and abandons her at sunrise. And she, knowing nothing of the vampire codes save what he’s told her, probably does as he asks and is happy.

Pathetic.

“No,” she says, answering Maria’s question at long last.

Maria nods without batting an eye; they’ve been partners long enough that she knows Natasha will take her time, will get lost in her thoughts. She’s remarkably patient, Maria. She has to be, since they don’t have the mental connection that they would have if Natasha had made her.

Natasha has never made another. The bond between sire and progeny is ancient and sacred, after all; Natasha has never found anyone worthy of it. She remembers the call, like another sense, the ability to read and locate her sire. It’s been a long, long time since that connection was severed, since James—

“They’re coming over here,” Maria announces suddenly.

She changes in Natasha’s peripheral vision, adopting a posture that’s closer to human, less statuesque. Natasha doesn’t bother. The punk, damn him, already knows what they are, and his pet — even more breathtaking up close — will soon recognize the traits. Natasha wants her to, wonders how long it will take for her to see what Natasha is, what they could be.

The punk is surreptitiously smelling them as he approaches. Maria sniffs, unsubtle, and her eyes narrow, but she says nothing. Natasha does the same, catches a strange, familiar scent....

It can’t be.

“Hello, Natalia, I am Steve,” the punk says formally. “I believe we have a friend in common.”

“Had,” Natasha corrects him harshly. How could he smell of James and not know?

Maria reads Natasha’s cues and shifts into a more protective stance. The blonde woman looks between the three vampires and coughs politely.

“Um, hi,” she says, and Natasha’s eyes fall on her, softening involuntarily. “I’m Sharon, I work for the CIA.”

She says this like it’s supposed to mean something to Natasha. It doesn’t.

Maria, however, leans back and assesses her with more scrutiny. “Here to bring us in?”

“No, no, of course not,” the blonde woman — Sharon — says. “But I have news that may interest you, Ms. Natalia. Steve and I have been tracking you for weeks, hoping—”

Natasha moves like water, grabbing each of them by the throat. Her grip on the human is only marginally more delicate.

“How?” she demands. “No one tracks me unless I want them to.”

Sharon’s breathing stutters, she twitches under Natasha’s hand, and an unexpected new scent rises between them. Natasha glances down, tracing the heat as the blood changes direction in Sharon’s body, as her nipples form stiff peaks under the fabric of her dress. Her chest is heaving. She licks her lips. Looks Natasha in the eye, desperate and wanting. Not frightened.

“Interesting,” Natasha murmurs, and lets go.

The punk covered in James’ scent is smirking. Natasha tightens her grip on him.

“For a pet, she smells nothing like him,” Maria tells her in Russian. “She smells like—”

“Enough,” Natasha growls.

“Please, Ms. Natalia,” says Sharon. She is still warm, pink with blood, but her eyes are focused. “We found him. We found James, he’s alive.”

“As alive as we can be,” the punk croaks.

“Take me to him,” Natasha orders, releasing him. “At once.”

He rubs at his throat, but nods, his gaze traveling up to the balcony behind Natasha. She doesn’t turn, but Maria does, and she huffs out a small laugh.

“What is it?” Natasha asks her, even as her eyes follow Sharon’s hands straightening her dress.

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” Maria replies.

“Shall we?” asks the punk. Steve. It is hard for Natasha to think of him as such.

“We shall,” she says curtly, and gestures for him to lead the way.

She half-expects him to refuse, to express a wise unwillingness to turn his back on her, but he goes without questioning, and Sharon falls into step beside him. Natasha allows herself to be distracted by the sway of Sharon’s hips as she cuts through the dance floor in her red heels.

Another vampire meets them in the alley, and Natasha is at once relieved and more suspicious when she sees that familiar gap-toothed grin. She knows why Maria laughed in the bar, at least.

“The prodigal son returns,” Maria says.

Sam looks down, bashful. Natasha surveys him, noting the way he reeks of Steve. Partners, then, like Maria is to her.

“You said to come find you if I ever needed anything,” he says.

Maria kisses his cheek. “Good boy.”

Natasha remembers the circumstances of his making like it was yesterday, though it was years ago. How many years, she isn’t sure, but there’d been a war, and Maria had emerged from the desert one night with a broken man in her arms.

“He deserves a second chance,” she’d told Natasha, like she was asking permission.

“If you think so,” Natasha had replied, careless. She didn’t believe in second chances.

“We found him in Romania,” Steve is saying, and Natasha realizes that she’s missed what are likely important parts of the conversation.

“He doesn’t remember how he got there,” Sharon explains. She is speaking to Natasha, completely focused again. Natasha misses the scent of her arousal. “But we’ve known for some time that HYDRA— that’s, uh, an international group—”

“I know what they are,” Natasha says. Steve meets her eye quickly before looking away.

“We were aware that they’d had access to a supernatural asset,” Sharon goes on.

“More than one, over the years,” Natasha adds with a humorless smile.

Sharon falters, her composure slipping. “I— uh, yeah. That’s what Steve— I mean, he—”

“Take it easy, kid, you’re doing great,” Sam chimes in suddenly, and Steve sends him a brilliant smile. Natasha barely suppresses the urge to roll her eyes.

“Sam and I have been working with the government for a few years now,” Steve says.

“Never could shake being a soldier,” Sam agrees.

Maria smiles warmly at him, and Sharon sends Natasha an anxious look.

“I’m sorry,” she says, but it’s not out of fear; the apology feels genuine. “It must seem like we’re ganging up on you or something.”

Natasha allows herself to smile. “I suppose it’s what I deserve for being unemployed all these years.”

“I did tell you to get a hobby,” says Maria, and Natasha’s smile turns into a laugh. She’s always loved Maria’s dry wit.

“When can I see him?” she asks Sharon.

The mood shifts all at once. Sharon glances at Steve and swallows hard.

“That’s not a good idea,” Steve replies, squaring his narrow shoulders as if he’s expecting a blow, which is not something that Natasha’s prepared to rule out just yet.

“He is my sire,” she tells him. “You can’t keep me from him.”

“No,” Sam agrees. His eyes flick towards Maria, and Natasha knows the pull is newer for him, stronger. She remembers that.

“He doesn’t know us,” Steve says quietly.

That, really, is the moment Natasha realizes who he is. She’d never met him, her maker’s first progeny, except by reputation. They were born decades apart, on opposite ends of a global war — Steven in America, waiting for James to return, and Natalia on the Eastern front, escaping Stalin’s Russia. Now they are Natasha and Steve, and James—

“He’ll know me,” Natasha maintains. “He’ll see me, smell me, and—”

“That’s what I thought, too,” Steve interrupts. His eyes are far away.

Sam goes to him, and Natasha feels the cool weight of Maria’s hand on her lower back, a grounding presence that keeps her from becoming unmoored.

“But we can take you to him,” says Sharon. “If you want.”

“Yes,” Natasha replies. It is the first time all night she feels certain. “Yes, I want that.”

* * *

She finds herself on a plane with blacked out windows, watching Steve and Maria each crawl into one of Sam’s sides and drop into sleep on the cabin floor. They are as still as the grave within seconds, but smiling. Natasha understands the impulse; the threat of the sun is getting nearer the further east they go across the Atlantic, but she isn’t ready for sleep yet. Nor is she ready to be so near Steve. She’s spent decades getting used to the absence of James’ scent; breathing it in now — and she wouldn’t be able to help breathing it in — would overwhelm her.

“Adds a whole new meaning to _sleep like the dead_ , doesn’t it?” asks Sharon.

She is sitting opposite Natasha, watching the others, too, but when Natasha turns back to face her, she blanches. “Sorry, is that— was that offensive?”

Natasha smiles. “You are adorable,” she says, letting her guard slip enough for Sharon to see that she’s being genuine.

Sharon relaxes. “Okay. I mean, thank you.”

“But I’m curious,” Natasha goes on, because she really is, all of the sudden. “Why work with vampires?”

Sharon’s cheeks color again — Natasha thinks about pressing her cold lips against her skin, feeling the heat of Sharon’s blood just under the surface — but she keeps her head up, her eyes focused on Natasha as she replies.

“My great aunt,” she begins. “She studied them, worked with Howard Stark during the war to protect both sides.”

“SHIELD?” Natasha asks, and Sharon nods.

“But HYDRA was there all along. Rogue science division,” she intones dully, her mouth twisting. “They took Aunt Peggy’s research and turned it against us. And you.”

Natasha arches an eyebrow. “Me?”

“I mean vamp— uh. Your people,” Sharon explains clumsily. “Nobody deserves to be exploited, to be held against their will and made to do... things.”

Her eyes drop, and Natasha knows. “You’ve read my history.”

Sharon nods, still not looking up.

“And yet you’re not afraid of me,” Natasha muses after a moment of silence. “Intriguing.”

“I...” Sharon begins, but she doesn’t finish.

She doesn’t have to. The changes in her heartbeat and circulation speak for her. Natasha licks her bottom lip, watches Sharon’s eyes follow the movement, and leans in, closing the gap between their seats. From here she can feel the heat of her flushed skin.

“You like the danger,” she says. “Being so close to death is how you feel alive.”

“Ms. Natalia,” Sharon breathes.

Natasha feels the air against her face because she’s bent forward completely, her hands on Sharon’s wrists, holding her down, boxing her in. Natasha chooses to inhale, to memorize Sharon’s scent.

“Call me Natasha,” she says, and Sharon’s pupils expand the instant before her eyes flutter closed.

“Natasha,” Sharon repeats, squirming in her seat. “Please.”

“What would you like?” Natasha asks, in a tone like truth serum.

“To be yours,” Sharon answers immediately. “All yours. Taste me, claim me, make me—”

Natasha can resist her no longer. She dips her head, catches Sharon’s lips in a kiss that burns her lips. Sharon moans into Natasha’s mouth, and Natasha swallows the sound greedily, her nose brushing Sharon’s as Sharon’s tongue pushes in, surprising Natasha with its eagerness.

Natasha lets Sharon dominate for a moment before she nips at Sharon’s bottom lip and sucks at the coppery taste. It is enough to remind Sharon of what she’s asked for, and Natasha surges forward as Sharon melts back. Natasha lets go of Sharon’s wrists, brings her hands up to bury them in her hair, which is even softer and thicker than she’d imagined, there’s plenty to hold without hurting her, unless—

She does it, tugs and twists until Sharon’s neck is exposed, the artery throbbing and pronounced, and Sharon whines. Natasha kisses it, grazes her teeth and suckles without biting.

“You can,” Sharon says, breathless.

Natasha shakes her head and licks a stripe from the artery down to the space between Sharon’s breasts. Sharon’s skin tastes like sweet salt, the memory of sunrise over the ocean.

“After,” she replies, and she pulls at Sharon’s dress— too hard, the fabric tears, exposing the red lacy bra beneath. Natasha smirks at the front closure. “I wouldn’t want to weaken you.”

“Too late— for that,” Sharon almost laughs, her breath hitching as Natasha unhooks the bra with her mouth.

Natasha hums. “Nevertheless,” she says into Sharon’s skin.

She swirls a pattern, the infinite loop, around each of Sharon’s pert nipples, and sucks at them while her hands worm their way under Sharon’s thighs, the skin there almost scorching her. She tugs, bringing Sharon to the edge of the seat and conveniently hiking her skirt all the way up to reveal more lacy undergarments and the heady scent of her arousal.

Natasha dips her head, spreads Sharon’s thighs as far as the seat allows, and waits for Sharon’s breath to reach a fever pitch before she pulls the panties down and slides her tongue along the crease of Sharon’s thigh. Sharon gasps — Natasha’s mouth is likely cooler than she’d been expecting, but she shifts, her hips chasing Natasha until Natasha can’t refuse her any longer, and ducks down to mouth at her clitoris.

It’s hot and firm under her tongue, which is warming now with the exposure. She draws another loop, a symbol of infinity, and Sharon shudders as she slips a finger just inside and curls it at the same time.

“Natasha,” Sharon whispers, giving the name at least one too many syllables.

Natasha looks up, catches the desperate gleam in Sharon’s eye, and carefully brushes the tip of one tooth against Sharon’s fragile skin.

Sharon freezes. Natasha smirks and goes back to licking her, slow and steady.

Sharon is biting her bottom lip so hard that she’s reopened the tiny wound Natasha had made. The smell of fresh blood spurs Natasha on, she quickens her pace, licking inside, sucking and stroking, her infinite loop losing its perfect shape until Sharon comes with a stifled cry, her back arching out of the seat, her eyes squeezed shut. Her cunt clenches around Natasha’s fingers, her pulse thundering up Natasha’s arm and down her throat as she swallows Sharon’s taste, leaving her whimpering, her thighs shaking.

Eventually, Natasha pulls back, lays soft kisses over her skin as she gently withdraws her fingers. She replaces Sharon’s panties and presses her tongue flat against the fabric, just to feel Sharon twitch once more, and gets to her feet. Sharon’s a wreck below her, her dress torn, her breasts spilling out, her hair tangled and frizzy with sweat.

“Do you...?” Sharon asks as Natasha smooths her hair, re-fastens her bra and pulls her skirt down again. There’s no hiding the tear in her dress, but Sharon doesn’t seem concerned. She’s looking up at Natasha, still fuzzy with the afterglow, but her expression is open and curious. “Because I want to.”

“Yes,” Natasha replies simply. Sharon’s eyes widen a little as Natasha opens her leather pants and brings Sharon’s hand up to the cool flesh. “I’ll warm up,” she reassures her, when Sharon hesitates. “If you let me—”

“Yes,” Sharon says at once, tilting her head to grant Natasha access.

Her artery is less pronounced now, but to Natasha’s eyes it cuts across Sharon’s skin like a river through a forest. She bends her head, brushes Sharon’s hair back reverently, plants a kiss to her pulse point.

“You’re so beautiful,” she murmurs. “Tell me if I hurt you.”

“You won’t,” Sharon says, even as a shiver runs through her, her skin breaking out into goosebumps. “I want it. Want you.”

Natasha licks the infinite loop once more into Sharon’s skin, and this time is the most important, the most ritual. It indicates where Natasha’s teeth will penetrate the skin, symbolizes the trust that she and Sharon are giving each other, forms the bond between them. Sharon will be marked now, forever hers.

Her teeth break the skin, puncture the artery, and Sharon’s blood bathes her tongue in a hot rush. It ignites her, spreading its warmth and wetness between her legs. It’s good, it’s so good, it’s been a long time since she’s had a pet to give her this, to bring her body back to life. She feels on the edge at once, so she gentles her sucking, lapping at the wounds more than anything.

Sharon takes this as a sign and slides her fingers back, along Natasha’s opening, the surface slippery and yielding now. Natasha grunts when Sharon presses one finger in — scorching hot with life — and widens her stance, letting Sharon go deeper and twist—

There. There it is, the place that always makes Natasha inhale, unnecessary though it is. She pants open mouthed into Sharon’s neck, smelling the blood that she’s swallowed, the blood that’s still running from the artery that she’s opened. She’s light-headed and dizzy with it, and only after a moment does she realize that Sharon’s nudging her clit with her thumb as well, slow and hard and hot. Natasha is certain that her touch is setting off sparks, that her clothes will ignite with it, and she hopes it happens, that she can be naked and exposed, with nothing but the residue of sun between her skin and Sharon’s.

The pressure builds, the pleasure peaks, all Natasha’s sensation contracts, to the blood on her tongue and the touch on her clit, and she’s coming before she’s aware of it, carried away by the waves of sweet aching that move through her body, leaving her drained and shuddering.

When Sharon eases her hand away, Natasha comes back to herself and realizes that she’s gone completely, inhumanly still. Sharon’s blood is clotting, a red smear to match her torn dress. She pulls back, bites her tongue to draw some of her own blood, and licks Sharon’s wounds until they close, leaving nothing but small points that will become bruises and fade faster than normal.

Sharon hums at the small, pleasant sensation. Her eyes are still closed. Natasha re-fastens her pants, then removes her leather jacket and uses it to cover the tear in Sharon’s dress. She lifts Sharon from the seat and carries her to the floor where Sam and Steve are sleeping and where Maria is giving her best impression of it.

She slots Sharon between her and Maria, holds her tight and kisses the top of her head. “In the morning, take some iron supplements,” she instructs, even as she feels the day sleep coming on. “Do you have any with you?”

“Please,” Sharon scoffs, snuggling nearer. “I do this for a living.”

Natasha opens one eye, sees Sharon wince.

“Well, not _this_ , exactly,” she stammers. “Obviously, I don’t— I mean, I work with—”

“Quit while you’re ahead, darling,” drawls Maria suddenly.

Natasha laughs at Sharon’s surprise, then kisses her lips as Maria goes still again. She holds Sharon close and lets the proximity of her partner and her pet draw her into the peaceful oblivion of day.

**Author's Note:**

> There may be another chapter of this, but no promises.
> 
> Title comes from ["Transylvanian Concubine" by Rasputina](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Fdo5IcLAAfc). If you know that song, congratulations! You're at least as old as me! (Bet you don't have it on a CD like I do, though....)
> 
> Come chat with me on [Tumblr](http://mrsdawnaway.tumblr.com/)!


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